She'd have a direct line to Billingham, spilling their trade secrets.
Baxter understood DC Walker's concern. Uniform and plain clothes didn't mix. Usually it was no more than healthy competition but the excommissioner's policies had fuelled the friction and blown it out of proportion. CID, particularly in the MET, was fighting for survival.
Baxter answered, “She's at the hospital. She's been there most of the night while you lot were getting your beauty sleep. Now, you've all heard what happened to the latest. Elizabeth Rayner, twenty-eight, single, by all accounts a nice professional woman, on her way home from her health club… DI Cole will brief you. I want progress reports every day at nine and six. And I mean progress.” He turned to Cole.
“I'll leave it to you.”
The others recognized an intimacy between them, something more than the job.
Once the door had shut Cole said, “Right, let's get on with it. Chas has got his work cut out. Peter you look after the indexes. David, take care of the usual faces and the door-to-door. I want to know about Elizabeth Rayner and the first victim, Carol Sapolsky. I want some common ground. So, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, workmates, clubs, the business. The uniforms have made a start but now we want it done properly. So far fingertips have produced zilch but they’re still looking at the drains and bins. Priorities? CCTV footage from the streets, boozers, shops and garages. And let’s have a go at the KCs. They’re not going to come forward without a nudge but if we can find them then they will be very helpful. For those of you who don’t know the Square is our local area of disrepute and it goes without saying that the girls are going to be really pissed off seeing us, the KCs even more, and that will work in our favour. They’ll want to help in order to get rid of us. Concentrate on the local hit list. I want every one of them TIED without exception.”
TIED is traced, interviewed and eliminated. KCs are kerb-crawlers. “We’ve already taken seventy calls regarding Miss Sapolsky and these have produced a dozen possibilities. Let’s have every one of them followed up today. Check with Catchem and Guys, see if anyone has a predilection for Stanley knives and women's breasts. Chas, sort out a desk for Donna. All of you please note that she is part of this team for the duration. I don’t want to hear any plod jokes. Questions?” “What about sexist jokes, Guv?” Chas Walker asked and the secondments shared an anxious moment.
“Sexist jokes I can live with,” Cole said and heard a collective sigh of relief.
Cole found Detective Superintendent Baxter in his office, coffee in hand, open BacoFoil on his desk revealing what was left of six rounds of ham and tomato sandwiches. A knife had left a lane of English mustard across one half of the rounds. The other half was only one step deep. Baxter brushed a crumb from his lips, almost embarrassed, and made a half-hearted attempt to wrap the sandwiches. After a moment he pushed them aside, placed his coffee carefully on the desk and said, “Sod it, Rick. Early lunch.”
Cole glanced at his watch. It wasn't yet ten.
Baxter adjusted his spectacles and frowned. “I'm not happy with this. A serial slasher?”
“We’re still one light for a serial and the MO might throw something up. They could be unrelated.”
Baxter made a dismissive noise. “Not much chance of that.” “I know it's early days but I was thinking about a profile.” “A bottle-fed psycho. What else do you want to know? What else will we learn? A history of violence, a strong connection with the area, a loner who finds relationships difficult?” Baxter touched the glass of his spectacles then took them off and began to polish. Without them he looked hollow-eyed and older.
“I was thinking of Geoff Maynard.”
“No,” Baxter said too quickly. He replaced his spectacles. “Not yet. The last thing I want is a psychologist muddying the water. We've got rid of one or, at least, nausea gravidarum has. We don't want another. Let's see what we've got at the end of the day.”
It was well known that Baxter did not have much time for psychologists, even one as eminent as Geoff Maynard. Until its disbandment he had been in charge of HOPE, the Home Office Psychological Experimental Unit at Green Park. As far as Baxter was concerned they were detrimental to an investigation. They narrowed the field, called it tunnel vision, and bits of evidence outside that narrow track were lost. Profiling, the concept of the nineties, had gone the way of the magnifying glass. Paul Britton and the judge who kicked Colin Stagg out of court had seen to that. What was more, much of the work was being duplicated at Catchem and the National Crime Faculty at Bramshill.
After a moment's reflection Baxter said, “But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to find out where he is and what he's up to.”
Baxter didn’t catch the look of mild satisfaction that softened the DI’s eyes.
The fire at Buncefield had been more or less extinguished and the sky was clearing but the smell of smoke hung on like a rerun of bonfire night.
Donna Fitzgerald arrived in civvies: short black skirt, black jacket over white shirt, all of it fitting rather snugly. In the corridor a couple of plods paused to watch her until she turned into the IR then they shared a nod and a knowing smile and a lot of wishful thinking. Cole sat on the edge of Chas Walker's desk, arms crossed. They watched her approach and Walker's eyes lingered too long on various places between neck and hemline. She cleared her throat, loudly, and pulled his attention northward. Her glare held an icy threat. Robert Peary would have been proud of her.
Cole enjoyed her response. He asked, “What's happening?” “Surgery is finished but she's still under. I'll get back later. Her mother's arrived.”
“Did we get anything?”
“Guv, she’s too traumatised to give a coherent account, but she did recognize his aftershave. Unfortunately she couldn't put a name to it. Expensive, though, forty quid a shot. It'll come to her.”
Walker said, “He's not short of a few bob then. I make do with Lynx.”
“It notices.”
Cole said, “Injuries?”
“One breast was all but severed. They've had to remove it. Fifty stitches to the abdomen and severe internal injuries. I didn't have much time. He came at her from behind. It was dark. All she saw was his arm. He was wearing a dark jacket, possibly black. He had his arm around her neck and slammed her into a wall. She thinks she lost consciousness.”
“Whatever else you can get will be useful. You know the form. Does she smoke?”
“Not in hospital. Why?”
“If she doesn't she'll be able to tell you if he does. Even forty quid aftershave can't hide it.”
She glanced at Walker. “Nor can Africa.” She looked back at Cole. “Right, Guv. How long do I stay with her?”
“As long as it takes. It's down to you to get us something useful. Did you get to see Carol Sapolsky?”
“Briefly. Nothing more to add. Came at her from behind. She didn't get a look.”
“Try her again, Donna. It's a long shot but if there's a connection between the two women…”
Donna nodded. She hadn't worked with Cole before but she’d heard about him. He came with danger signs. Her sashay from the room was even more decided and Chas Walker found it difficult not to follow. Once she'd gone he shook away her image and said, “Not much.” Cole nodded, “Depends what you’re referring to.”
“Experience, Guv. She’s a uniform. Maybe a more experienced…” “Forget it. Don’t even go there.”
Walker was a copper who went through the motions but he would never climb the ranks. Sooner or later he would move over to security which would suit him better. He'd arrived from the army with a squaddie's attitude and six years on the job hadn't made a difference. Cole headed for the coffee machine. He found Donna standing next to it, head slightly bowed, shoulders stooped, her coffee making waves.
“You all right?”
“I'm all right. I was up late.”
“Of course you were.”